


I Am Doing the Best I Can

by orphan_account



Series: When Your Hist'ry Book Mentions Me [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He waited at the stage door, program in hand for the man himself, and cheered with the rest as Hamilton exited.When Hamilton reached him, scribbling a messy signature across the cover, Washington finally realized how much he had missed him. “You did well, son.”Hamilton grinned up at him, long hair tied back in a messy bun, sharpie stains on his fingers. “Not your son.”(one shot)





	I Am Doing the Best I Can

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I promised myself I'd let that last one stand alone, but you all kept asking if there was going to be more, sooooooooo....
> 
> Sorry in advance?
> 
> It's not my best, but I wrote it really fast.

Washington had always known who he was. When he was young, he would divide his friends  into Tories and Patriots, and lead his troops to victory over the jungle gym.

 

For old times’ sakes.

 

He ruled the classroom with a firm, but fair-handed fist, the undeclared leader of all he saw. He didn’t try. It just happened that way.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

He had nightmares.

 

Disconnected images of soldiers falling and dying, piercing screams from raw throats as they fired again and again, gunshots echoing over the blood-slicked grass. Horrifying dreams that woke him, sweaty and lost, wrapped in the tangled sheets, and calling for Martha to hold him. 

 

Just hold him.

 

His new parents worried over him, fussing that he was too withdrawn, too polite, too…  _ old. _ He stayed silent for long stretches of time, and all the blurred faces walking by would comment that there was “something weird about that kid.”

 

The world was empty, and he was alone.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

He worked as a principal at a high school in DC, the captain of a brave army of teachers and counselors, the former general who wondered all too often if he had finally gone mad.

 

He stood by the doors of the crowded cafeteria, arms folded as he watched his charges scramble over each other, scurrying in every direction in a mad race to nowhere. It was as he stood, face set and grave, that he heard it.

 

_ Hamilton _ .

 

It was a whisper across the room, but he heard it as if he was standing beside them. Two teens in the back of the room, deep in conversation. Each wore matching t-shirts, grey, with white writing:

 

_ Hamilton & _

_ Washington & _

_ Madison & _

_ Jefferson & _

Burr.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

He waited nervously in the velveteen seats, his hands sweaty as he clutched the program that had been handed to him, emblazoned with the bold title: HAMILTON. As the lights dimmed and the music began his heart pounded, threatening to spill out of his chest at any second. He instantly recognized its figurehead, and his small gasp of wonder and exhilaration was covered by the loud chords and song. Hamilton, in all his glory, smirking and living and breathing and  _ writing _ , and he smiled.

 

There were no tears on his cheeks by the time it had finished. He had had far too much practice hiding them from his soldiers to let his feelings show, but his heart swelled with pride. 

 

He was honoured by the portrayal of himself, and the stunning, complicated musical threads that twisted and turned in the tangled measures and verses, the complicated steps and gorgeous lighting, but most of all he was proud of his son.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

He waited at the stage door, program in hand for the man himself, and cheered with the rest as Hamilton exited. 

 

When Hamilton reached him, scribbling a messy signature across the cover, Washington finally realized how much he had missed him. “You did well, son.”

 

Hamilton grinned up at him, long hair tied back in a messy bun, sharpie stains on his fingers. “Not your son.”

 

And then he was gone, and Washington was alone.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

The principal walked slowly back to his hotel, a strange sort of grief weighing in his chest. There had been no recognition in those wide brown eyes, no startled realization.

 

Perhaps he was mad.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Across the city, Hamilton settled into his favourite chair, laptop in hand and mind buzzing with ideas.

 

Burr sat alone in his dressing room as the lights around him went out, trying to stop his hands from shaking, trying to rid himself of the horrible feeling of the smooth handle of a gun in his fingers.

 

Washington stared at the night sky with empty eyes.

 

_ I am doing the best I can. _

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my oxygen


End file.
